


Repeat

by thomasjeffersonsmacaroni



Series: the prefix re- [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 02:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni/pseuds/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni
Summary: The cycle repeats again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Records was supposed to be a stand-alone. Then Records and Rewind were supposed to be the only two parts of this series. And now I'm saying "screw it" and releasing 3 more parts, this being one of them.  
> To be honest, I'm not very fond of this, but here ya go :)

Eliza was away with the children, and Alexander was feeling entirely alone.

He shouldn't have been, he knew. He was with his work and his intense determination to get his bill passed, and those were the only two things that he needed. Those were the only two things that he _wanted_.

He could spend time with Eliza when he was done. His duty to the country, and his desire to defeat Jefferson, came first.

_Just one night._

A memory was all he had. Two, actually. No - _three._

One of the event itself, of working sleeplessness and unfound canes. One of the time when he had tried to write it down, and the way his hand shivered and jerked and wrote scratch marks on the parchment paper. And one of the cabinet meeting on the day after, of the way his head hurt at the contrast between the formidable force debating from across the table and the helpless little thing kissing his neck above him.

Alexander couldn't call Jefferson a man. He had been surpassing that label ever since the moment they had met.

He continued staring at the wood in front of him. Now that he thought about it, there were hundreds, thousands, _millions_ of memories, and they all formed a web with Jefferson at the center. But there was no equation to translate memories into a reality, and until there was, they would always be a painful tugging in both of their chests.

During the first few weeks of nights, Alexander silenced this tugging with a mixture of his work and an unhealthy lack of sleep. Work also silenced how much he missed Eliza, and although his fingers cramped from the writing that he did, and the bags under his eyes blended in perfectly with the darkness of the room that the candle's light failed to reach, he himself considered it a win-win situation.

But then Maria Reynolds knocked on his door, slicing straight though that block of pain, and from the moment he saw her he knew that she would be his lose. But she was there regardless, and she was holding out her hand, and she was saying something that Alexander could barely hear through the haze that surrounded him, and his mouth was moving, even though his brain had not told it to. And the next thing that he knew was giving her money, and how they were walking arm in arm through the quiet streets, and she was saying something again.

"It's quiet, isn't it?" she asked. "I'm not really used to it. My husband is always so loud."

"My children are, too," he said, but this wasn't entirely true. Yes, Angelica could be loud at times, when she was outside trying to chase butterflies, but Philip was well-behaved and quiet, usually. Studious, too, and poetry loving.

He didn't know why he had said that he was loud. Somewhere in him, he wanted to say that it was to relate to her, but he wasn't sure at all why he would want to do that.

They had arrived at her house. It was small, he thought as she led him inside - why in the world was she leading him inside? - and into her parlor, and as she removed the clip that she had secured into her hair.

Somewhat awkwardly, Alexander's hand reached for the doorknob, and his mouth muttered something about needing to head back home. But then Maria placed her hand on his, and she parted her lips ever so slightly, and she whispered into his ear, speaking in a beautiful, raspy voice.

"Stay? For just one night."

 _Just one night,_ Jefferson said inside his head.

"Just one night," Alexander repeated, both voices blending inside him, leaning back and allowing her to press him against the wall.

With Eliza everything was like a picture; with Jefferson it had been painfully clear. But with Maria it was nothing more than a haze, and if he closed his eyes for more than a second and concentrated on something else, he could almost pretend that it hadn't happened. The only moment that seemed real to him was the morning after, as he gathered his things and moved to leave, and as he started at her still-sleeping body in the weak light of the barely-rising sun. She was so small, so helpless, and the room was so dark.

In this light she could almost be Eliza. In this light she could almost be John.

In this light she could almost be Thomas.

 _Just one night,_ he had moaned last evening.

"Just one night," he whispered now, quietly so that she wouldn't hear him. The morning was so soft, so still, and maybe in another life he would refer to it as pure.

But mornings in affairs always meant that you had to leave.

_Just one night._

But it couldn't be. It _wouldn't_ be.

As he walked home, he memorized the location of her house. He would return again.

 

And he did.


End file.
